Chapter 3 #2
The sun hit me like a slap the moment I looked up.
Dannie moved instinctively in front of me, arm stretched out like some protective human barrier.
He’d had the driver drop us on the opposite side of the road, which now looked like a chaotic, fast-moving death trap.
Cars drifted between invisible lanes, and motorcycles zigzagged through gaps that clearly weren’t there.
“You didn’t think of hiring a car? It’s dead cheap here,” he said, eyes squinting at the oncoming swarm.
“Let’s just walk across first,” I drawled, dragging out the word for dramatic effect. “Then we can talk about cheap car rentals and dying young.”
We made it across alive—barely—and by the time my pulse stopped pounding, our driver had already done a U-turn and parked neatly on the curb across the street.
Dannie shot me a smug look.
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Next time we’ll just stay in the car and enjoy one more minute of air-conditioning.”
A breathy chuckle escaped, wiping sweat from his face with a tissue. His white, fitted T-shirt clung to him instantly. It was funny seeing a man like Dannie—a triad boss, a walking wall of calm authority—brought down by heat and humidity.
In some ways, I was lucky. The heat didn’t bother me much. My body barely sweat, no matter how warm it got. Some people said that was unhealthy, but there wasn’t any conclusive research to support either side. At least, not in the medical textbooks I’d read.
The café Dannie had chosen turned out to be a small, open-air shop wedged between two shophouses. No air conditioning—just ceiling fans turning lazily, pushing around the scent of fish soup, chili, and shrimp paste.
It only served one dish: laksa. The best in town, according to that French guide that somehow also reviewed tires.
Every table was full when we arrived. The clatter of bowls, the hiss of boiling broth, and the rhythmic sound of metal spoons tapping ceramic bowls filled the humid air.
Dannie guided me to stand beside a small family who looked like they were done eating, though they lingered over their drinks. Meanwhile, he hovered near a couple who instantly slowed down when they noticed him watching.
If this were a race, I would’ve won—without breaking a sweat. It didn’t require any skill, just intense mental signaling and the occasional laser stare. People tended to move faster when under psychic pressure.
When the family finally left, the staff swooped in with practiced precision—clearing glasses, stacking bowls, wiping the table with a wet cloth that smelled faintly of bleach and lime.
An older lady handed us a laminated menu featuring their only dish: laksa, and an impressive list of drinks and desserts. I let Dannie order for both of us. He had an uncanny ability to predict what I’d like—or, more importantly, what wouldn’t destroy my stomach.
During my solo explorations of Penang’s museums, I’d seen cafés like this before.
Bright, busy, loud. Some had only one stall; others were a patchwork of vendors under a shared roof.
The air was thick with the aroma of fish and spice, and everyone who left did so smiling, bellies full and eyes half-closed with bliss.
“I still can’t believe you never tasted any traditional dishes.” Dannie lifted a shoulder as though it was a personal offense. “It’s practically a crime.”
“To be fair,” I argued, “I did go to that café near the apartment.”
“That’s not the same.”
“How is that not the same?”
Before he could answer, two steaming bowls of brown noodle soup landed on the table. The smell hit me instantly—strong, tangy, and unapologetically pungent. It wasn’t what I’d call pleasant.
“Okay, let me ask you something,” he said.
“Go ahead.” I leaned forward, intrigued. I wanted to see what kind of assumption he was about to make—and how close he’d get to the truth.
Dannie picked up a mustard-colored squeeze bottle and drew two neat, dark spirals over his noodles. The stench somehow got worse.
“This,” he said with pride, “is the essence—the soul—of this dish.”
“If you say so,” I muttered, watching as his chopsticks lifted a clump of white noodles tangled with shredded greens into his mouth.
“My god…” I mumbled, eyeing the bowl suspiciously. The whole thing reminded me of my first time trying cauliflower cheese—smelly, gooey, and suspiciously brain-like, but somehow comforting.
“You were saying…” I prompted.
“Oh, right.” He pointed a chopstick at me. “I bet you only go to that café because of the white guy behind the counter. Am I right?”
I blinked, half-impressed, half-offended. “How did you—ugh. Unfortunately, he’s married.”
“So are you,” he said with a grin, reminding me of our fake marriage—something that technically only a few people in Hong Kong believed to be real.
“Sorry, just kidding,” he added quickly, when my glare sharpened into what he probably recognized as a death laser.
“It’s just… awkward,” I admitted, fiddling with my napkin. “People assume I speak Chinese when they look at me. And when they realize I don’t, it’s humiliating. So I just… stay home. Catch up on reading.”
Dannie nodded, understanding, then gestured with his eyes toward my bowl.
“It’s still piping hot,” I complained.
“Come on, I thought you were more adventurous than that. This is better than the raw egg, I promise.”
“I doubt that. That egg was one of the tastiest things I’ve had in weeks—not the healthiest, but still.”
Holding my breath, I scooped up a mouthful of noodles and vegetables and took the plunge.
Unbelievable.
The flavor exploded—sweet, sour, spicy, fishy, creamy—all at once. My eyes watered. I couldn’t decide if it was from the chili or the shock of how good it was.
“Wait, stay just like that,” Dannie said, grabbing his phone.
He snapped a picture before I could protest. A second later, he held up the screen for me to see.
I looked ridiculous. My eyes wide, jaw hanging, skin glistening from the humidity. And yet… I looked content. Unburdened.
“Yummy!” I smiled, embarrassed.
The food was comforting—surprisingly so. I couldn’t tell how much of that comfort came from the dish itself and how much came from the man sitting across from me.
If I’d come alone, I never would’ve dared to eat here. Street food in a developing country was a doctor’s cautionary tale, usually ending with an unfortunate encounter with a squat toilet I wasn’t flexible enough to survive.
“It’s actually not that scary,” I said out loud before I realized.
“Huh?”
“Being here,” I clarified. “I don’t know why I was so nervous before. People here are patient—even when they barely understood each other.”
I scooped another spoonful of broth, tasting the strange, wonderful harmony of flavors—fishy, tangy, spicy, with a hint of sweetness that lingered like a secret.
It reminded me a little of Thai tom yum, a little of Chinese hot-and-sour soup, and somehow, a little of that French bouillabaisse my dad loved.
Except this—this was better.
“Wait until you try durian,” Dannie said, breaking my train of thought. He drained half his iced coffee in one go, looking both hot and miserable. “It’s even smellier.”
“No way,” I almost screamed. ”Nothing could possibly smell funkier than this.”
Right on cue, two bowls of icy brown dessert arrived. I frowned down at mine. There were green noodles floating in it.
“What am I looking at?” I asked, leaning closer like it might bite.
Dannie grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Welcome to Malaysia. This is cendol. Dessert, Malaysian-style.”